


Seismic

by frumplebump



Series: Suraya [1]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Bisexual Character, Domestic, Drinking, Established Relationship, I don't read this kind of thing enough to know what to tag it, M/M, Oops Baby, Post-Canon, References to Depression, Reluctant Dads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-28 22:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21399661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frumplebump/pseuds/frumplebump
Summary: “Why the fuck would someone dump a baby on our doorstep?”“Because I think it’s mine...”
Relationships: Yami Bakura/Malik Ishtar
Series: Suraya [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069649
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello internet, here I am again with a story I labored over for months and then forgot about for years. Now it is yours.
> 
> This takes place maybe seven years or so after the ceremonial duel, with Bakura recently returned to life thanks to your standard hand-wavey occult shenanigans on the part of Malik and Ryou.

“What the hell is that noise?”

Bakura struggled up from sleep. “I didn’t hear anything until you woke me up, asshole.”

“That crying sound.” Malik pointed vaguely to the front of the house. “Do you hear it?”

He listened until he caught a high-pitched mewl. “Yeah, so what?”

“Is that a cat or something?”

Bakura shrugged as he turned on to his side. “I don’t know. Go chase it away.”

The mattress creaked as Malik stood up and dragged on his pants. Bakura was skimming the surface of sleep again when he heard Malik call from across the house.

“Bakura?” Malik’s voice quivered and broke on the last syllable.

He groaned, twisting himself tighter into the sheets. After a moment, he heard Malik again. “Bakura, come out here. Please.”

That _ please _ made him frown, and with an aggravated sigh he stumbled towards the front door.

Malik stood there in the doorway, one hand on the frame as if he needed to brace himself. “What?” Bakura barked as he approached, but Malik didn’t respond, didn’t even turn his head, just kept staring down at the front step.

Bakura put his hand on Malik’s shoulder to shift him out of the way and looked down.

“What the fuck?”

The creature making the noise was an infant, a human infant, lying on its back in a baby carrier.

Malik was still gazing at it, stupefied, but Bakura shoved past him to glance up and down the street. There was no one to see, no cars or pedestrians, no sign of whoever had left the child. “Why the fuck would someone dump a baby on our doorstep?”

“Because I think it’s mine,” Malik whispered.

Bakura laughed, because that had to be a joke, but Malik wasn’t laughing and when Bakura turned to stare at him, something heavy and cold dripped down his spine. “Malik?”

Malik extended his hand, passing Bakura a folded sheet of paper. “This was tucked in there.”

He opened the note to see a few lines printed across the page in small, feminine handwriting.

_ Malik Ishtar, meet your daughter. I did my best, I guess, but I don’t want her and can’t raise her. You did a good job trying to disappear, but in the end the consequences found you, didn’t they? Raise her yourself, or find a real family for her, it’s your decision now. Best of luck. _

“Malik.” 

Malik covered his face with both hands, knotting his fingers into his hair.

“None of this is true, right? This is absurd.”

Malik’s voice was barely audible as he said, “I think it probably is true.”

Bakura slammed both hands against Malik’s shoulders, shoving him hard. As Malik stumbled backwards, the door swung wide and crashed against the wall and made the baby redouble her wails.

“Since when do you even sleep with women?” Bakura shouted.

“Can we not do this right now—” Malik began, sweeping his arm out to indicate the wide-open door, the quiet neighborhood, the distressed child.

“When else? Right here, right now, I want to know what the fuck is going on, Malik!”

Malik’s jaw clenched as he met Bakura’s eyes. He looked like he wanted to swing a fist at Bakura’s face, or break down in tears, or disappear. He bent and picked up the baby carrier.

“You’re not going to bring that into the house,” Bakura said in disbelief.

Malik shouldered Bakura out of the way, closing the door and setting the carrier down in the hallway like a sack of groceries waiting to be unloaded. The baby continued to cry, her sobs ragged with exhaustion.

Malik sat on the side of the couch and crossed one arm tight across his body, leaning his head into his other hand. He kept his eyes closed as he said, “I’m sorry, Bakura.”

Bakura ignored the apology. “Who’s the mother?”

“I… I’m not completely sure.”

Malik winced as Bakura let out a harsh laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me? How many more bastards are going to turn up on our doorstep?”

“Gods, you act like I knew this was going to happen!”

“I know you grew up in a tomb, Malik, but by now even you should have figured out how babies are made.”

“Fuck you.” Malik crossed both arms over his chest, staring at the infant. He sighed. “I messed up, okay? I really, really messed up.”

“Clearly. Why, though? When? What the _fuck_?”

Malik met his eyes and tried to hold them, but Bakura started pacing, turning his back on the tears that he didn’t want to see Malik shed. “Last summer was… it was awful,” Malik said. “It was the worst things have been for me since before Battle City. I felt so fucked up, and alone, and I was sure there was no way you were ever coming back—”

“Are you really going to make this _my_ fault?”

Malik glared at him and continued, “I just, I don’t know, I had to do something to get out of my own head, make me feel like I was someone else, someone who didn’t need you or anyone.”

“Well, I hope you figured that out.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think? You think I’m just going to stick around now? How the hell am I supposed to be okay with you having a _baby_?”

“Bakura, please, don’t do this.”

Bakura ignored the hand that reached out to him, striding into the bedroom to get dressed.

“I do need you,” Malik called after him, and when Bakura gave him no response, he shouted, “Gods, do you have to be so selfish?”

Bakura howled with bitter laughter. “_I’m_ selfish? Malik, for the love of all the gods, I don’t think I’m the selfish one here.”

He came back out of the bedroom still pulling his hair free of his shirt, one arm in his jacket.

“What are you doing?” Malik asked, eyeing him as he shoved his feet into his shoes and stuffed his keys in his pocket.

“What does it look like? I’m going out.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Watch me,” Bakura scoffed.

Malik’s wide eyes fixed on the baby again. “What the hell do I do with her, Bakura?”

“Do I look like I know what to do with a baby?”

“Don’t leave me like this. _Please_, Bakura.”

“Oh, fuck.” Bakura leaned his forehead against the closed door. All he had to do was turn the handle, step outside, maybe never come back, but the door might as well have been barred from the outside. “Malik, I hate you.”

The baby continued wailing, shrieking like nothing in the world would ever be right again. “For fuck’s sake,” Bakura groaned. “You have to make her shut up.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Pick her up, you idiot! Do _something_.”

Malik approached the carrier, crouching to inspect the buckles like he was getting ready to defuse a live bomb. Bakura felt like he’d never managed to wake up today as he watched Malik slide his hands under the baby and gingerly lift her. This wasn’t real. The expression on Malik’s face right now—guilty and profoundly lost—was one Bakura had never seen before. Malik didn’t look like himself at all, and he hated it.

Malik tried to settle the baby in the crook of his arm, holding her close against his chest, but it did nothing to stop her screaming. His wide, frantic eyes turned back to Bakura, but Bakura just shrugged. _This is your fault_, he wanted to say, _entirely your fault_, and the desperation rising in Malik’s eyes was the least of what he deserved.

“Maybe she’s hungry,” Bakura said. “Guess you better figure out what to feed her.”

Malik looked at the baby, then stumbled over to the couch and sank down. “I’m going to throw up,” he muttered.

“No, you’re not. Get a grip.”

“Bakura…”

“Gods, when did you become such a useless moron? You need to feed that kid,” Bakura said. “I’m going out now—don’t give me that look. I’m going to walk to the grocery store, and you’re going to check online and figure out what kind of stuff you need, and text me.”

Malik nodded. His lips moved in a _thank you_ that Bakura could barely hear over the baby’s cries.

Bakura snorted. “Don’t think I’m doing this for you, or for _her_. My ears are going to start bleeding if she doesn’t shut up, and I could use a fucking walk.”

* * *

He took the long way, partly to give Malik time to get his shit together, but mostly to savor the silence, the distance, and the cigarettes that Malik hated smelling on him. Despite the buzz of street noise, their neighborhood had never felt so serene, once he had gotten far enough that he couldn’t hear the baby’s shrieks ringing out of their house (or maybe it was just echoing in his ears, like a scream in a lingering nightmare). He was never one for going on a walk just for the hell of it, which was part of the reason he’d never really taken up smoking—Malik wouldn’t let him do it in the house, and he didn’t like the idea of depending on a fix that required fresh air. But Malik had just upended his life, and Bakura couldn’t give a shit about what he wanted him to do or not do.

Despite his ambling, when Bakura arrived at the grocery store, there was still nothing on his phone from Malik. He rolled his eyes and lit another cigarette, leaning against the wall as he waited. He enjoyed the perturbed glances from shoppers taking in his black jacket and long tangled hair and generally pissed-off stance, but that only amused him for so long. With an annoyed sigh, he tossed away the half-finished cigarette and went inside.

He killed more time with a few laps of the grocery store, and still nothing from Malik. Muttering curses to himself, he stalked up and down the aisle of baby supplies, scanning the shelves with narrowed eyes.

“You seem a bit lost.”

Bakura glared at the woman who spoke to him. “Do I look like I want your opinion?”

“You do, actually.” The woman smiled calmly, moving towards him like she was approaching a leashed dog.

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “All right, fine. What do you feed a baby?”

“How old is this baby?”

“No idea.”

The woman raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not my kid,” he muttered. “I’m just… helping out a friend.”

“Well, are we talking about a newborn?”

“No, I don’t think so, she’s—” Bakura paused, did the math in his head. “She’s around two months old, I guess. I don’t know.”

The woman continued to stare at him, then blinked and shook her head. She pulled a can off the shelf and held it out to him. “This is what I fed all my kids when they were babies.”

Bakura held the can like it was a live grenade. “How much of this do I need?”

“Why not try the one container and see how the baby does on it?”

He nodded.

“Do you have bottles? Diapers? How about pacifiers?” the woman prodded. When Bakura shook his head, she ushered him along the aisle, pointing out her recommendations. “You know, formula and diapers will only get you so far.”

Bakura huffed through his nose. He and Malik had both survived their own infancies with none of the expensive plastic contraptions cluttering the aisle. “Food goes in, shit comes out, and they’re asleep the rest of the time, right? How much more complicated does it need to be?”

She stifled a chuckle and shook her head. “Well, I hope your… friend has a better idea of what she’s doing,” she told him.

“That’s not how it—” Bakura began, when he realized what the woman was assuming, but she was already giving him a vacant smile and turning to approach another customer.

He was walking back home, his arms full of his humiliating cargo, when he finally felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. “Oh, just fuck off, Malik,” he sighed.

* * *

Bakura was tempted to let his armload of shopping bags crash to the floor as he came inside, but the house was quiet and he didn’t want to risk the baby starting up again, so he maneuvered everything onto the kitchen counter. He found Malik still in the living room, their laptop open on the couch next to him and the baby asleep in his arms.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Malik sighed as he saw Bakura. “I’ve been scared to move since she fell asleep, but I _ really _need to piss.”

“Not sure why that’s something I need to know,” Bakura said, flopping down on the opposite end of the couch.

“Hold her for me.”

Bakura laughed hollowly. “Put her back in the carrier. I’m not cuddling your by-blow, Malik.”

Malik didn’t look at him, but Bakura could see the line of his jaw sharpen as he eased the baby out of his arms. 

Malik went into the kitchen on his way back from the bathroom, and Bakura heard him rustling through the shopping bags. “I didn’t even look at your message,” Bakura called. “You took way too long, so don’t bitch at me if that’s not what you wanted.”

“It’s fine,” Malik responded. He reappeared a few minutes later with a bottle in his hand, full of a creamy beige liquid that made Bakura curl his lip in disgust. “Thank you, by the way,” Malik said, as he settled himself on the couch. “For getting all of this stuff.”

“This is the one and only time it’ll happen.”

He watched Malik wake the baby, rubbing her chest until her eyes opened. When he offered her the bottle, she started feeding immediately with desperate enthusiasm.

Bakura scrubbed a hand across his face. He was tired—usually he wasn’t even awake before noon, let alone back from an obnoxious shopping errand—and the sight before him was doing nothing to convince him that he wasn’t still dreaming. Malik, _ his _ Malik, still wearing the tank top he slept in and the jeans that he’d grabbed off the floor, with remnants of yesterday’s kohl lining his eyes—but he looked like a stranger because he was sitting here tense with panic and holding a _ baby_, a baby that he seemed horribly willing to believe was his own.

“This is the strangest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Bakura told him.

“You’re telling me.” Malik gave a short, deflated laugh. “I was not expecting my day to begin with an internet crash course in infant formula and diaper-changing.”

Bakura didn’t return his laugh. “Malik… what are you going to do?”

Malik stared down at the baby. His expression was blank, but just the fact that he was hesitating before answering made the pit of Bakura’s stomach turn cold. “I don’t know,” he said.

“You’re going to give her up, right?” Bakura prodded. “Find some adoption agency or something, turn her over to someone who can actually raise a child?”

“Maybe.”

“Seriously, Malik, why is this a question? You don’t even know if she’s really yours!”

“Bakura, look at her eyes,” Malik said softly. Bakura didn’t move. “Come over here and look at her and then tell me she’s not mine.”

Bakura sighed and scooted across the couch. The baby’s unfocused gaze swam across his face as he stared down at her. No one but Malik had eyes like that, those lavender irises and heavy lids, but it was more than that. Her pale hair, her tawny skin, the hint of elegant planes below the soft mounds of her cheeks—Malik’s features were stamped all over her, as if even his genes had something to prove.

“Well?” Malik asked.

Bakura shrugged. “Congratulations, I guess. Is that what you want?”

Malik leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. “Thanks for being so mature about this.”

“Tch.”

“I said I’m sorry. I said I need you. What else do you want me to say, Bakura?”

He looked at the baby cradled in Malik’s arms. “Say you’ll fix this,” he said. “Give her up. Go back to how things are supposed to be for us.”

The skin around Malik’s eyes tightened, but he nodded slightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original inspiration for this was a drabble (I think) that I read on tumblr or someplace (I think) with a similar premise, where Malik has his kid unexpectedly dropped on him. I wanted more of that story, and also for Bakura to be in it, so I made this exist. I've been beating myself up trying to find that original story and I just can't remember where it was, but if you know what I'm looking for, please let me know so I can credit that author.


	2. Chapter 2

Bakura groaned. He felt like someone had spent the night tapping rusty nails into his skull. The space behind his eyes was raw and throbbing, and he didn’t know whether more of the blame lay with Malik’s howling baby, or with the vodka he’d downed to try to knock himself out.

He opened his eyes to see that the bedroom curtains were backlit in pale gray light. The night was over already, and he couldn’t recall being fully asleep for any of it.

Malik trudged into the bedroom and crashed onto the mattress with a moan. Bakura tried to yank the sheets out from under his prone body. “I can’t live like this,” he snapped at Malik.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t give a damn if you’re sorry. Sorry doesn’t shut your kid up.”

Malik sighed, rubbing his hands over his bloodshot eyes. “It’ll get better, once I figure out some kind of routine for what she needs.”

Bakura stared at him. “A _ routine_? That’s your solution? Not turning her over to—”

“I know, I know.” Malik cut him off. “Just… give me time, Bakura. I can’t hand her off to random strangers. She’s my daughter.”

Bakura rolled onto his side, facing away from Malik. Something thick was lodged at the bottom of his throat and he had to swallow a few times before he pressed the words out in a whisper. “So, the mother… you really don’t know who it is?”

He felt the sheets tug as Malik shifted. “I guess I have a fairly good idea.”

“Who?”

“No one you’d know.” Malik sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want her, she doesn’t want me or the baby, and I couldn’t care less where she is or what she’s doing.”

“A one night stand?”

The thing clogging Bakura’s throat turned cold and sharp when Malik hesitated. “Not much more than that. She was fucked up, too, we were just each other’s bad self-destructive decisions.” Malik leaned on his elbow, his breath tickling the side of Bakura’s neck. “Why are you asking me this, Bakura? Is this really something you want to know?”

“You never even told me you like women.”

“It never seemed relevant.” He could hear the frown in Malik’s voice. “I don’t _like_ anyone. Only you.”

“Great, thanks so much,” Bakura snorted. He bunched the sheets more firmly around himself, showing Malik the rigid line of his spine. Malik’s palm settled on his shoulder for a moment, hesitant but warm. He didn’t respond. With a sigh, Malik dropped his hand and rolled away from him.

He thought of Malik tangled between someone else’s legs, someone else’s fingertips drifting over his scars. He bit down on his lip until his eyes watered.

* * *

Later that morning, Bakura stood in the kitchen as the coffee brewed, watching it fall drop by drop into the carafe like sand through an hourglass. Another ten minutes added to this side of his broken timeline, another ten minutes since yesterday morning and _because I think it’s mine_. Bakura fixed Malik’s coffee the way he always took it—no cream, but an obscene amount of sugar—and brought it to him in the living room. Malik was lying on the couch, staring at the baby as she sucked her thumb in her sleep. He sat up when he saw Bakura, giving him an unsteady smile.

“What?” Bakura groused, folding himself into the far corner of the couch.

“Thanks for the coffee.” 

“Hm.” He didn’t want to talk; he wanted to drink his coffee and rejoice in the few moments of silence they were being granted. But he could feel Malik’s gaze sidling over to him, trying to judge just how black his mood was.

After a moment, Malik sighed. “I’m going to tell Isis and Rishid.”

“Why?” Bakura protested. “What good will that do, if you’re not keeping her?”

“They should still know about her. They’re her family.”

Bakura felt his world slipping even further out of his tenuous grasp. “They’re not going to let you give her up once they know, Malik! A precious Ishtar baby? They’ll drag you back to Egypt. You tell them now, and you make it a thousand times harder to get our lives back to normal.”

“Bakura,” Malik sighed. “No matter what happens, our lives aren’t going back to normal.”

“Wait.” Bakura grabbed at Malik’s arms as Malik started to pull the laptop towards himself. “Do you think they’d take her? Raise her?”

“I can’t ask them to do that.” Malik shook off Bakura’s hands. 

“But if you—”

“I already texted them that I need to talk, Bakura, they’re waiting.” As Malik opened up a video chat window, Bakura scooted deeper into the couch, where he could still see the screen but wouldn’t show up on the camera.

“Malik, are you all right?” Isis asked. A lag in their internet connection caused her voice to fall out of sync with the movement of her lips. “We got your message. What is it that you need to tell us?”

“I, uh—” Malik pressed his face into his hand as Bakura watched. “There’s no easy way to say this, so: you and Rishid have a niece.”

Malik’s siblings blinked silently for a moment. “Are you telling us that you fathered a child?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice muffled behind his hand.

Isis and Rishid exchanged baffled glances, and Bakura swallowed a dark laugh. “I’m not sure I understand,” Isis said. “Why didn’t you tell us about this sooner?”

“I didn’t know until yesterday.”

“And the mother? What about her?”

“Not in the picture.” Malik hunched his shoulders, curling into himself.

“Oh, Malik,” Isis sighed. “What have you—”

“Is the baby with you, then?” Rishid interrupted.

Malik nodded.

“Come home. Bring your child and come home—we’ll raise her together.”

“I’m not going to do that.” Malik’s eyes shifted to Bakura. “Bakura won’t come back to Egypt.”

“Bakura?” Isis continued to sound stupefied. Bakura shifted in annoyance as he watched Isis’ brows pull together. “The needs of your child outweigh what Bakura wants you to do or not do,” she insisted. “Come back home, and if he can’t deal with that, then—”

“First of all, he’s sitting right here,” Malik said, pointing to where Bakura lurked off-camera. “And I’m not going to abandon him. But also, I’m… I don’t think I’m going to keep the baby. I’m just going to take care of her for a little while, until I can find a good place to take her.” As he spoke, his gaze drifted to his child.

Rishid noticed. “Will you show her to us?”

Isis and Malik both stared at their brother for a moment, and then Malik swallowed and nodded. The baby kept sleeping as Malik lifted her and settled her in his arms. “Here she is.”

“Oh, Malik,” Isis said again.

Bakura noticed the small smile tugging at the side of Rishid’s mouth, and he knew what was coming next. “If you need us, then we’ll fly out there,” Rishid said.

“No, you don’t need to do that,” Malik protested, but Bakura recognized the longing that softened his voice.

“Of course we will,” Isis said. “I’ll go look for flights right now.”

She didn’t wait for Malik’s nod of assent before getting up and leaving the chat window. As they waited for her to return, Rishid asked Malik about the baby—was she sleeping, was she eating, was she keeping her food down? What kind of formula? What kind of diapers? What else did they need?

Bakura ground his teeth together as Rishid spouted lists of things they should do, things they should watch out for, things they should buy. He spoke like he assumed that Bakura had some stake in any of this, as if he deserved to pay the price of Malik’s mistakes. Bakura shoved himself to his feet and stalked behind Malik, so that Rishid could see him. “Don’t you dare involve me in this, Rishid,” he snapped.

Rishid’s eyebrow raised in a clean, high arch. He opened his mouth, but before he spoke, Isis came back and settled beside her brother.

“I booked our tickets,” she said. “We’ll be there next Wednesday. I’m sorry we can’t get there sooner.”

“It’s okay,” Malik said. “Thank you.”

“Malik.” Isis’ tone was pleading. “Please, I know this is difficult for you, but don’t make any decisions until we get there. Think about what you want, and then we’ll figure out what we’re going to do, but let us meet our niece.”

“I will.”

They ended the call. Malik turned to look at Bakura, waiting for the simmering storm to erupt.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bakura said.

“Bakura—”

“Another _ten days_ of dealing with this so we can wait for your big brother and sister to come tell you what to do?”

“You’re three thousand years old. I can’t believe you’re bitching about ten days.”

Bakura ignored that. “What are you going to do, just not go to work?”

“Well, I take it you’re not going to watch her for me,” Malik said, and Bakura responded with an ugly laugh. “I’ll call in sick.”

“Yeah, and what about when you run out of formula and diapers and all that other crap?”

“Then you’ll go out and buy more.”

“Like hell I will.”

“Oh, then you’re planning to stay here and watch the baby while I do it? Fuck, Bakura, just help me keep this child alive long enough for us to figure out what to do with her. Is that really so goddamned much to ask?”

“You’re not _asking_, you’re treating me like your servant.”

“I’m treating you like my partner.” 

Something in Bakura’s chest fluttered and then fell. “Oh, good, that’s always worked out so well for me.”

* * *

Malik and the baby were both asleep at the time that Bakura normally would start pestering him about feeling hungry, so Bakura went to the kitchen and made something vaguely like a stir fry with odds and ends he found in the fridge. He thought about making only enough for himself, and he thought about mixing beef strips into the whole thing, but in the end he did neither. He scooped half of the pan onto a plate and set it aside before adding meat to his own portion.

The food had gone cold by the time the baby woke Malik up by crying again. Once Malik had changed her and fed her, he put the plate in the microwave and came to stand behind Bakura, who was crouched at his computer with his knees tucked to his chest. “Thank you,” Malik said, dropping a kiss onto the top of Bakura’s scalp.

Bakura waved him away.

Malik sat on the floor as he ate, watching the baby as she lay on her back, wriggling and cooing. She was wearing only a diaper; she’d already spit up twice on herself, and apparently Malik had given up cleaning her onesie.

“If she’s going to be here for a while,” Malik said, “then we’re going to need more stuff—more clothes, for one thing. And she should probably have a crib or something—”

“What? Fuck no. Cribs are expensive, and big, and what the hell are we going to do with it when she’s gone?”

“Well, where is she supposed to sleep, then?”

“In that carrier thing.”

“She can’t just live in that,” Malik snapped, “she’s not a potted plant.”

“Then figure something else out, but we’re not buying fucking _furniture_ for this kid.”

“Bakura, she needs—”

Bakura stood up, holding out a hand to warn Malik that he wasn’t going to listen to whatever he was about to say. He marched into their bedroom and pulled out the bottom drawer of one of their chests, upending its contents. Then he grabbed a few old sweatshirts from the back corner of the closet and layered them into the drawer. They were soft with age and offered a few inches of padding, and he couldn’t imagine how an infant would really require anything more.

“Look,” he announced to Malik, going back into the living room to show him his solution. “She can sleep in this.”

Malik raised one eyebrow. “I guess.”

“She can sleep in this, or she can leave.”

Malik rolled his eyes and took the drawer out of Bakura’s hands. He went into the spare room, where the baby had spent her first night with them on a blanket spread on the bare floor, and when he came back his face had softened a little. “Thanks, Bakura,” he said.

* * *

The second day ended; the third began, then stretched, then gave way to the fourth, but Bakura hardly noticed. The distinction of day and night disappeared as time collapsed into a perpetual loop of the baby crying, of Malik dragging a hand down his face and groaning, of feeding and cleaning and soothing and cradling until she passed out for another hour or two, replenishing her strength for the next round of torment.

Bakura coiled up tight, tethering himself to his computer with headphones that buffered the baby’s noise. He pretended to ignore her, but it was like trying to ignore an earthquake. She was sliding the ground out from under his feet, opening cracks, turning solid earth into sucking mud.

For the first four days, Malik tried to prod Bakura into helping—_can’t you at least warm the formula while I change her diaper _,_ gods just hold her while I take a shower_—but Bakura bristled and refused until Malik gave up. After that, Bakura realized that Malik’s back was turned to him more often than not. Fair enough, he told himself. Thank the gods, he told himself, that Malik had stopped harassing him. 

Bakura watched, with dark glances over his shoulder, as Malik changed. The baby was catalyzing a transformation in him, unlocking some primal alchemy inscribed marrow-deep in his bones. The moment of confused panic when he had first lifted her out of the carrier seemed like part of another lifetime. Hour by hour, his body softened until he carried her easily, counterbalancing her slight weight with a casual contrapposto that pulled Bakura’s gaze like a magnet. 

Malik talked to the baby more than to Bakura, his voice slipping into a soft lilt that made Bakura grit his teeth and raise the volume on his computer. He talked to Rishid more than Bakura, too. He consulted with his brother at least once a day, holding the baby on his lap so that Rishid could fawn over his niece from the other side of the world. Bakura felt like he was watching from just as far away, like it would take days of travel for him to get to Malik’s side.

The seismic shift hadn’t just knocked him off his feet, he realized, hadn’t just crumbled the still-setting foundations of his life. An ocean had opened up and now Malik stood on the other shore, almost too far away to see.

On the fifth day, Malik didn’t speak to Bakura until late afternoon, when he informed him that they needed groceries, could he please just drag his ass to the convenience store and pick up some things for the next few days. Bakura left without complaint, then wandered in the opposite direction. His phone pulled on him like a brick in his pocket, and he wasn’t sure whether it would be worse for Malik to pester him or to leave him in silence, so he turned it off. He got as far as the harbor before his legs started to ache, then slumped on a bench and let the sky darken and watched the lights on the ferris wheel spill technicolor reflections into the water.

By the time he made it back to the convenience store around the corner from their house, the day’s selection was picked over. He lazily scavenged what he could, then spotted a single melon bun sitting alone on the rack and added it to his basket. They were too sweet for him, but Malik liked them.

When he unlocked the door, he found Malik lying on the couch and the baby curled in a bundle on his chest, snug in the circle of his arms. They were both asleep, Malik’s mouth hanging slack as his slow breathing lifted and lowered the baby in a gentle rhythm. For a moment Bakura forgot the grocery bag dragging at his fingers, forgot the burn in his legs and the exhaustion that settled behind his eyes like a brewing storm. Something deep in the pit of his ribcage started to ache.

He shook himself and went into the kitchen to shove the contents of his shopping bag into the fridge. He rewarded himself with a can of beer for his trouble, holding it against himself to muffle the crack of opening it, then shuffled back into the living room.

Malik’s face twitched, and his eyelids started to shiver. Bakura contemplated him, holding a mouthful of beer on his tongue. He knew Malik was dreaming, that he should probably wake him, but his legs felt stiff. He sighed, swallowed, and picked his way over to the couch like he was walking on slick ice.

“Malik,” he murmured. He started to reach for Malik’s shoulder, but the sound of his voice was enough. Malik inhaled sharply, and his arms tightened around the baby before he opened his eyes. Bakura watched Malik’s pupils waver until they focused on his face.

“You startled me,” Malik murmured.

“You were dreaming.”

Malik grunted noncommittally, shifting to look at the baby, who still slept soundly on his chest.

“Anyway, I got some stuff at the convenience store for dinner, if you want. And there’s one of those gross melon buns for you too.” Bakura straightened up, turning away from the little smile of gratitude playing on Malik’s lips.

“Thanks.”

“You want it?”

Malik adjusted to sit up straighter without disturbing the baby. “Actually, that beer looks really good right now.”

Bakura went back to the kitchen to fetch another beer, opening it for Malik before he handed it to him. He settled on the far end of the couch and pulled out his phone, turning it on and pretending it held his entire interest until the weight of Malik’s gaze on him pressed too heavily.

“What do you want, Malik?” he muttered, glancing at him.

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Bakura’s heart plunged through him like a stone as it fell. “You’re keeping her, aren’t you?”

“I—I don’t—” Malik blinked. “That isn’t what I wanted to talk about.”

Bakura felt queasy, with relief but also with dread that the inevitable moment had been postponed. “What, then?”

Malik looked down at the crown of the baby’s head, then lowered his face to touch the tip of his nose to her scalp. The gesture reminded Bakura of how far away Malik was, even within the walls of their little house. “I need to give her a name,” he said quietly. “Got any ideas?”

Bakura shook his head, feeling himself sag again. A name was sacred; he knew that Malik wouldn’t acknowledge his child with a name and then let her go again. A name was an iron chain welded tight, with no lock that he could pick.

“Didn’t you have a sister, back… before?” Malik asked softly.

Bakura stared at him.

“I could use her name, if you would let me.”

“I can’t remember her name.” A cold wash of guilt seeped through him as he realized it was true—somewhere along the way he’d lost her name, let her die a second time.

“Your mother, then? What was her name?”

“I don’t _ remember_. Gods, Malik, stop!”

“I’m sorry.”

Malik’s voice was dull, and Bakura belatedly regretted the scorched peace offering. Hunching his shoulders, he muttered into his beer, “Name her after your own mother. What was she called?”

“Suraya,” Malik whispered, looking down at the baby.

That name had gone unspoken for a long time, Bakura knew. As Malik voiced it, it fell like rain after a long drought, anointing the head of his daughter. “Seems good enough,” Bakura told him.


	3. Chapter 3

Bakura knew then that he had lost, but he lingered, like he always did, waiting to cheat his way back in or scavenge what he could at the end of everything. He ached with the old soreness of wanting one thing, one single thing only, and having it torn out of his hands. Each time the baby—Suraya—cried, it was like fingers prodding tender bruises. The constant aggravation set his teeth on edge, stirred his brain into a froth of anger, and he spat and snarled like a cornered animal when Malik turned his eyes toward him.

It had been six days, and he was tired, so tired. It was exhausting to pretend he could sleep next to the empty space in bed, listening to Malik’s voice carry softly into the bedroom as he murmured to his daughter.

Bakura planned to spend the day with his eyes on the computer screen and his ears sealed by his headphones, but despite the blasting sound effects and music, Suraya’s piercing shrieks still managed to penetrate his brain. “Goddammit, Malik,” he spat, ripping off the headphones and spinning around in his chair, “your kid could wake the dead.”

“You would know,” Malik said.

“What the hell are you even doing?”

Malik was sitting on the floor with Suraya, dangling one of his earrings between her waving arms. She wasn’t crying; the jarring noises she was making were screams of delight, as far as Bakura could tell.

“I guess we’re playing.” Malik gave him a sheepish look. “She kept grabbing for my earrings every time I held her close enough to reach them.” He swung the pendant again and Suraya squealed. She didn’t seem to have the coordination to actually grasp anything, but she was writhing with eager determination. “I think she’s a girl after your own heart, Bakura. Little thief.”

Bakura rolled his eyes and turned back to his computer.

“She’s actually smiling,” Malik said. “Did you know babies this young could smile?”

Bakura tossed his headphones onto the desk and raked his fingers into his hair. “Fuck, I knew it would end up like this.”

Malik’s hand stilled. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You’re not going to give her up.”

“Maybe not,” Malik said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Misery gripped Bakura from the inside and twisted tight. “Well, it’s her or me, because I can’t do this.”

“You’re so melodramatic.” Malik dragged the earring half-heartedly through Suraya’s hands again. “The legendary Thief King, finally brought low by an infant.”

“I hate you, Malik.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Don’t be so fucking smug,” Bakura snapped. “I could leave, you know.”

Malik spun to face him, slamming his fist against the arm of the couch beside him. “Then do it,” he said. “All you’ve done for days is bitch and moan and glare at me and spit on my apologies. I haven’t slept more than three hours at once, I’m almost literally drowning in shit, I’m spending all my time worrying about this baby, and you won’t lift a finger to watch her or help feed her or _ anything_. So fine, leave. It’s the least you could do.”

“This is _ your _ fuck-up, Malik. This is all on you. Why should I have to deal with it?”

“Yeah, how stupid of me, expecting decent human behavior from you.”

“Oh, that’s nice. It was your _ decent behavior _that got us into this shit show in the first place.”

“I’m so glad I have you around to make sure that I don’t go ten minutes without being made to answer for my mistakes, Bakura.”

“Mistakes like the one where you snapped and killed your own father?” The words caught Bakura by surprise, and even though they tasted like poison in his mouth, he couldn’t stop them. “I wonder if your kid’s mom would have reconsidered dumping her on you if she’d known that little tidbit about your past. Even someone who’d abandon a baby would probably think twice if—”

“Stop.” Malik’s voice was low and quiet and Bakura could hear how he struggled to keep it steady. “Bakura, stop talking.”

Bakura knew he’d crossed a line. They could sling ugly insults all day, but they didn’t make each other’s trauma into weapons. His gut turned into a sinking pit of shame. An apology was stuck in his throat, but before he could work the words out, Suraya started to whimper. Malik gathered her into his arms and stood up.

“Wait, Malik,” Bakura said.

Malik didn’t look at him, just turned and walked away.

* * *

“Bakura! What are you doing here?” Ryou didn’t seem unhappy to see him, but he stood in the doorway of his apartment, delicately blocking the way.

“Can I come in?”

“Oh. Sure.” Ryou moved back, analyzing Bakura with curious sidelong glances as he stepped out of his sneakers. “Is everything okay with you and Malik?”

“Didn’t he tell you?” Bakura sneered.

Ryou shook his head. “He hasn’t been at work all week and when I texted him, he was real cagey. All he’ll say is it’s some kind of ‘family emergency’.”

Bakura laughed. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.” He flopped onto the couch, still laughing bitterly, and covered his eyes with one arm. “Shit. Family emergency.”

“You’re worrying me.” He felt Ryou sit down at one end of the couch. “Come on, tell me what’s going on, Bakura.”

Bakura kept his arm across his face. “Malik has… um…” His throat closed up. “Before I came back—before you guys brought me back—did Malik have anyone else? Like, someone else he was close to.”

Ryou was looking at him strangely. “Not that I know of,” he said. “It wasn’t any of my business, but if he did, he never mentioned it. I don’t think he was in the mood for that, though.” His eyes were dark and soft with an empathy that was foreign to Bakura. “He was so… depressed, I guess. He was having a hard time here, and he never stopped wishing that he could get you back.”

Bakura coughed out a dry laugh.

“Bakura, seriously, what’s going on? What is this about?”

With a huge sigh, he let the words spill out. “Malik got someone pregnant and she dumped it on our doorstep and now there’s a two-month-old baby living in my house.”

Ryou was perfectly silent. It was a long time before Bakura heard him breathe, “Oh, wow.” Then he got up and his footsteps padded off in the direction of the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” Bakura asked.

“I think you could use a drink.”

“I don’t want a goddamn cup of tea, if that’s your idea of a drink.”

Ryou came back with two glasses and handed one to Bakura. “Something a little stronger than tea.”

Bakura sipped the whiskey appreciatively and didn’t speak for a moment. It was quiet here, a beautiful, lingering quiet. He felt his nerves start to untangle. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“Of course.” Ryou sat next to him on the couch again, drawing one foot up under himself. “So… you guys are fighting about this?”

Bakura shot him a dark look, and Ryou shrugged.

He glanced away. “I guess. I mean, yes. I said some things that he didn’t like.” He scrubbed a hand across his face. “Gods, Ryou, he’s starting to consider keeping this kid, but he’s lost his damned mind if he thinks he can do this.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Are you kidding? Can you see Malik as someone’s dad?”

Ryou sipped his drink and considered. “I can, actually.”

“He doesn’t know how to be a parent!”

“I don’t think that’s something anyone just _ knows_,” Ryou said. “I think it’s something you learn as you go. And Malik’s good at that kind of thing.”

“But he—” Bakura sputtered, and realized he had no argument to counter that. “Well, _ I _ don’t want to be a parent,” he said. “I hate all of this, the screaming and the crying and the puking and the shitting. I hate being woken up every time I finally manage to fall asleep. I hate the stupid sounds she makes and I hate the way Malik acts around her.”

Ryou gave him a sad, sympathetic smile. “You’re scared.”

“Fuck off, Ryou. Don’t patronize me.” He downed the rest of his glass in a long, burning swallow.

Ryou put down his own half-empty drink, went into the kitchen, and came back with the bottle. As he set it in front of Bakura, they heard Ryou’s phone chime. Ryou pulled it out and looked at it with a frown.

“Malik’s texting me asking if I know where you are,” Ryou said.

Bakura rolled his eyes at the disapproval hanging heavy on Ryou’s voice.

“You can stay here tonight if you want to. You know where everything is, so make yourself at home, I guess.” Ryou folded his arms. “But I really think you should be at your place.”

“Malik doesn’t need me,” Bakura muttered. “He should get used to being without me. I can’t be what he wants.”

Ryou sighed. “Don’t you think that what he wants most right now is to know that his partner supports him and loves him?”

Bakura responded by pulling the whiskey bottle closer to himself and refilling his glass. Ryou shook his head and went to his bedroom, and Bakura drank until Ryou’s apartment turned into a warm, blurry cocoon.

* * *

The smoke coiled into his throat, expanding until his screams were reduced to tiny, soundless gasps. He tried to shout warnings, to cry for his parents, but his voice was powerless, and when he reached out to grab at the people rushing past him, his hands slipped through their forms like they were already ghosts. The lurid flames of the pyre on which his whole world was being sacrificed loomed over his head and at last, all he could do was hide himself behind a wall and stare in mute agony.

It was like this every time.

But this time, he realized, he wasn’t alone in his hiding place. He turned, looking further into the shadows, and saw purple eyes gleaming out at him: a child, crouching in terror. As their eyes met, the child seemed to grow even more afraid, and stood up. He could sense that she was preparing to dart past him, but if she did that she would run directly into the arms of the murderers wreaking havoc on the village.

_ Stop_, he wanted to say, but his voice was still throttled.

She got to her feet and ran. He seized her arm, and his fingers found purchase—she wasn’t a ghost yet, at least—but she screamed and writhed and broke his grasp. Helplessly, he watched her race away. As she did, she turned her back to him, and he choked on a mouthful of bile as he saw that her tunic was saturated with bloody stains. She was lacerated from shoulders to hips in markings that he knew so well, too well.

A name was on his paralyzed tongue, and the name didn’t make sense, it couldn’t belong to this little girl, but he knew her, he knew this, he should have stopped this but—

“Bakura.”

A hand was on his shoulder, shaking insistently.

“Bakura, wake up.”

He recognized Ryou’s voice, and groaned as reality began its slow creep back into his skull, bringing with it a pounding headache. “What do you want?”

“I think you were having a nightmare,” Ryou said. “You were crying—”

“No, I… I just drank too much.” He covered his face with both hands to hide his eyes from Ryou.

Ryou was quiet for a moment, then said, “Okay. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

He returned with the water and a couple of painkillers, both of which Bakura swallowed with a grunt of thanks. “What time is it?” he mumbled. The apartment was suffused with the colorless light of early morning, but outside the street was still nearly quiet.

“It’s a little after five,” Ryou said.

“I woke you up?”

Ryou shrugged. “I wake up at six anyway. It’s fine.” He stood up, padding into the kitchen. “Should I make enough coffee for you?”

Bakura nodded. He dozed until the aroma of the fresh coffee lured him back out of sleep, and he opened his eyes to see Ryou offering him a cup.

“I have to go to work in a bit,” Ryou told him. “Will you be awake and sober enough to get back home?”

“No,” Bakura said flatly.

Ryou pursed his lips. “Do you think I’m going to let you hide out here all day?”

“Why not?”

“I’m not your host anymore.”

Bakura sipped the coffee, toying with Ryou’s impatience. “Well, I’m not going home,” he said. 

Ryou threw up his hands in exasperation. “And you want me to believe you’re not scared?”

Bakura kept looking down into his coffee cup as he muttered, “I never said I wasn’t scared.”

Ryou’s stance softened, and he came over to the couch, settling down an arm’s length from Bakura. “No,” he said. “I guess you didn’t.”

“I’m human, now.” Bakura’s laugh was hollow. “Of course I’m fucking scared.”

“From what I understand, it’s perfectly normal to feel that way.”

He snorted. “And is it perfectly normal for a child to be raised by someone like Malik and me? A father who was so damaged that he split off a violent alter-ego to protect himself? And me—fuck, I was a tomb robber, and that’s the best thing I can say about myself. I was a demon’s host, I _ died _three thousand years ago, most of what I know about being human in this century comes from possessing you and I got you killed a time or two.”

“Well,” Ryou said, with a small smile. “Nobody gets perfect parents.”

Bakura stared at him in disbelief.

“You and Malik are both so much more than what you used to be.”

Shaking his head, Bakura pressed on, “We were destroyed by the things that happened to our families, the things that happened to us when we were just kids. Gods, neither of us even had childhoods.”

“Then give Malik’s daughter the childhood that was taken from you,” Ryou said, as if explaining to him that two and two equaled four. “The childhood that you would give Malik, if you could change things for him. You don’t have to make the past your legacy.”

Bakura sighed deeply and pressed his fingers over his eyes. “Ryou, you make me want to puke.”

“Sure that’s not your hangover?”

He felt the couch cushions shift as Ryou stood up. “I need to get ready for work,” Ryou told him.

He waited until he heard the bathroom door shut and the shower start to run before lowering his hands and scrubbing the dampness from his cheeks.


	4. Chapter 4

Bakura heard Ryou’s key turn in the lock but didn’t bother getting up from the couch.

“You’re still here,” Ryou observed dryly.

“I told you I wasn’t going home.”

Ryou sighed. He stood in the entryway, keeping his shoes on. “Even if I were going to let you stay here, which I’m not, you don’t have a change of clothes or anything.”

“I’ll wear yours. We’re the same size.”

“We’re not, actually. You’re shorter than me.”

Bakura rolled his eyes at Ryou’s smirk.

“Come on,” Ryou ordered. “Stop being stupid. _ I’m _going to your house, and I’m not leaving you here to sulk and act like a child, so get up and put your shoes on.”

Huffing with annoyance, Bakura stood. “Why are you going over there? You just have to get involved?”

“Well, someone should be,” Ryou said calmly. “I told Malik I’d come by this evening and give him a hand with anything he needed. And return his wayward boyfriend.”

“I should have known you’d take his side.”

“That’s not what’s going on here.” Ryou held open the front door, letting Bakura slouch out into the hallway ahead of him. “This isn’t a zero-sum game.”

Bakura shrugged, then stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets as he waited for Ryou to lock the door. 

Ryou let him walk in silence as they made their way to the station, occasionally checking over his shoulder to make sure Bakura was still trailing after him, but otherwise leaving him to the murky roiling of his thoughts. The train was still crowded with the last wave of rush-hour riders, but Bakura barely noticed them; he was still chewing over his nightmare and Ryou’s words, like bitter kernels he couldn’t bring himself to spit out. He jumped when he felt Ryou’s touch on his arm. “Hey, this is our stop.”

It was a short walk to their house—too short. He didn’t have time to string together even a rough draft of an apology to offer Malik before they got to the front door and Ryou was waiting for him to produce the keys.

Bakura was already halfway to the bedroom when Malik stepped into the hallway, almost colliding with him. Suraya rested in his arms, her head tucked against his neck, but as he saw Bakura he shifted the baby to free one hand.

Bakura let Malik’s fingertips brush across the back of his wrist, but then he pulled away.

He heard Ryou’s coo of admiration as Malik showed him the baby, and glanced over his shoulder. Ryou leaned over Suraya, letting her grip his finger as he grinned at her and told Malik that he’d never seen a cuter baby. Bakura felt like the gods were taunting him with a vision of what should have been: the body he used to live in, behaving the way Malik no doubt wished that he would. He turned and let the bedroom door shut heavily behind him.

With his eyes closed and his headphones over his ears, Bakura lay on his back, trying to let himself drift, but the current that caught him was rough. He bumped up against the sharp edges of memories and the sucking voids where memories should have been, and choked on mouthfuls of accusations and apologies and pleas that he wanted to spill out for Malik.

He felt the mattress shift and opened his eyes to see that the light had changed while he lay there, streaming into the room now with the bold, bright angle of early evening. Malik sat next to him, looking at him warily.

Bakura pushed his headphones back and sat up. “Hey,” he muttered.

“I missed you last night.”

He nodded, but stood up to leave. Malik leaned over and tugged at the edge of his shirt. “Stay for a minute. I want to talk to you.”

Bakura hesitated. “What about your kid?”

“Ryou’s watching her for me.”

“Oh, so this is Ryou’s idea, too.”

Malik smiled slightly. “You know he’s pretty good at the guilt trip. But I do want to talk to you, Bakura. I… I’ve missed you.”

“I was only gone for one night.”

“I’m not just referring to last night. We haven’t had time to be together at all.”

Bakura snorted. “Whose fault is that?”

“I know, I know. But Ryou’s giving us time now.”

He settled back down on the bed. “Then what do you want to talk about?”

“You.” Malik lay down on his back, blinking up at the ceiling. “What you said yesterday.”

“Shit, Malik.” Bakura raked his hands into his hair, and finally the words unlocked on his tongue. “I’m sorry. What I said about your father—I shouldn’t have. I went too far.”

“Yeah, you did.” Malik’s mouth was drawn tight, and Bakura knew he wasn’t about to offer forgiveness, but when he spoke again his voice was softer. “You’re an asshole and I know you said that to get me where it really hurts but… you don’t do shit like that unprovoked.” He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand to study Bakura. “This has been worse for you than I was willing to acknowledge.”

Bakura swallowed. “You dragged me back into this life,” he said. “You made me think that finally, _finally_, I could make choices, I could have what I wanted, I could be what I wanted. That I could have you. And then…”

He snuck a look at Malik’s face and saw the pooling guilt darkening his lavender eyes. “Bakura, you deserve to have the life you want.” Malik sighed. “I talked to Rishid again last night. Asked if he and Isis would consider adopting Suraya.”

Something shivered in Bakura’s chest. “And?”

“And if it came to that, of course they would.” There was a snag in Malik’s voice as he asked, “Bakura, will it come to that?”

Bakura stared at him. “Wait, really? You’d give her up for me?”

Malik sank onto his chest, propping his chin on his arms. “I don’t know. When you were gone, I started thinking… if keeping my daughter means losing you, then maybe she’s better off with someone else, because I don’t think I want to do this if you’re not with me.”

Bakura lay down beside Malik. It took him two tries to make his hand move, but he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Malik’s ear. “I can’t live with you resenting me for making you choose between me and her.”

“But if I keep her, will you stay?”

He stared at the striped shadows cast across the wall by the sunset through the blinds. “Is this something you ever imagined for yourself, Malik?”

“Being a father?”

“Yeah.”

Malik was quiet for a moment. “The way I grew up, it was taken for granted that I would continue the family line. But then after what happened with—with the initiation, and my other self… I figured I was too damaged to ever raise a child. And then once I started living with you, well, it seemed like it was off the table for good.” Malik stopped for a moment, and his voice, when he continued, was husky. “But sometimes I’d still imagine what it would be like if it were possible—if you and I could have a family. I wanted that, Bakura.”

“You never told me.”

“Of course not. You would have laughed at me.”

“Probably.” Bakura kept staring past Malik’s shoulders at the wall, because whatever was in Malik’s eyes right now, he didn’t think he could handle seeing it.

“What about you? Did you ever think about having kids?”

Bakura scoffed. “I lost my parents when I was five years old. I never had a childhood, I knew I would die young, and I’m not interested in women. Why the hell would it have even crossed my mind?” He paused, finally let his eyes rest on Malik’s. “How could you want a family with me?”

“You’re my partner,” Malik said quietly. “I love you.”

Bakura flinched. The words were still hard to hear, and even harder to say. He shook his head. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“When have we ever known what we were doing?”

“Malik, this isn’t some card game.”

“Thank the gods for that. Look at your record.”

Malik’s taunt was a lifeline, pulling him back to steady ground, and he seized it with a warm rush of gratitude. He shoved Malik’s shoulder, making him flop over onto his side as he chuckled. “Asshole. I’m done talking to you.”

“Good. I could use a nap.” Malik rolled back onto his stomach, facing away from Bakura. Bakura stayed sitting on the bed beside him for a moment, watching the sunset light up Malik’s hair like filaments of gold. Then he leaned over him. The movement made Malik tip a little, and he started to snarl at Bakura, but Bakura shifted his hair out of the way and pressed a single kiss into the nape of his neck. Malik stilled under him, murmured his name, but he was already half asleep before Bakura was even out the door.

* * *

Ryou came by again the next evening, bringing bags of take-out curry for the three of them. After they ate, Malik gratefully deposited Suraya into Ryou’s arms and went to take a shower.

Bakura slouched at his computer, absently grinding through piles of mobs. He felt like he was being more than sociable simply by staying in the house, not to mention sitting in the living room where Ryou was making obnoxious sounds as he played with the baby, but Malik had barely been gone a few minutes when he felt Ryou prod him in the side.

“What the fuck?” he demanded, snatching off his headphones.

“Have you really just been sitting around all day, every day, letting Malik deal with everything?”

“No.” Bakura crossed his arms indignantly. “I washed the dishes.”

“That’s saintly of you, but I meant with the baby. He can’t even take a shower that lasts longer than three minutes because you won’t look after Suraya?”

Bakura swiveled back to face his monitor. “I don’t know what to do with babies.”

“Well, you’re a fast learner.”

“Get off my ass, Ryou.”

He felt Ryou move away. Rolling his eyes, he settled into his game, only to sense Ryou hovering at his back again a minute later. When he glanced over his shoulder, Suraya’s huge eyes were staring at him from eight inches away.

“Malik said you’ve never even held her.” Ryou shifted, offering the baby to him.

“I just told you, I don’t know how to hold a baby.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m teaching you. Put out your arms.”

“Stop it. I’ll drop her.”

“On purpose?” Ryou’s mouth quirked. “No you won’t. You’re not a monster anymore.”

Bakura sighed noisily. “I’m doing this on the condition that you then shut the fuck up and leave me the fuck alone,” he said, holding his arms out in front of him.

“Of course.” Ryou gave him a beatific smile, and leaned down. Bakura didn’t quite understand the maneuvering that was happening—Ryou was too close, annoyingly close, and so was the baby, he could smell the sweet warm scent of her. Ryou shifted Bakura’s arm slightly, nestling Suraya’s spine against his forearm. Bakura’s other arm curled more naturally around her bottom half, and she slung a leg over his elbow like she was settling in, ready to sprawl there all night. Then Ryou stepped away, holding out his empty hands like a magician finishing a trick, and all of Suraya’s weight hung in Bakura’s arms.

“Where are you going?” Bakura demanded.

“Leaving you the fuck alone, as requested.” Ryou smiled sweetly over his shoulder.

“Ryou, I will murder you.”

Ryou shrugged but didn’t turn around, going into the kitchen and starting to sort the trash from their dinner.

Bakura stared down at the baby in his arms. He’d expected her to feel limp, like a sack of rice, but he realized that her muscle control was developed enough that she could support herself a little. She wiggled slightly against him, kicking with her free leg until he awkwardly tucked it in against his arm. One of her hands clenched, then she stretched out her fingers and brushed against Bakura’s thumb. He stared as she clutched his finger in her absurdly tiny fist, and then she looked up, her gaze sliding all over his face but returning repeatedly to his eyes. She was a tiny person, he realized, an actual person who shared half her genes with Malik and, knowing Bakura’s luck, all of her personality. Someday she would walk, talk, hurt someone, love someone, lose someone.

Bakura’s mind skittered; he felt like he was looking through a tunnel of mirrors, infinite reflections of Malik’s face and his daughter’s face until one was indistinguishable from the other. Suraya contemplated him with her father’s eyes and he wondered what those eyes would watch, what she would lose. His arms felt numb; his whole body felt numb. He wanted to put her down and get as far away from her as possible, vanish into the darkness of a tomb or the arid loneliness of a desert. All he knew of life was the worst things that could happen, and all he had to offer was dread and wariness.

“Bakura?”

Ryou’s voice startled him. His arms tightened reflexively, and Suraya whimpered a little protest.

“Is everything all right?”

“Take her back,” Bakura said.

Ryou held out his arms without question, and didn’t say anything when Bakura got up and walked away, leaving his headphones dangling from the edge of the desk.


	5. Chapter 5

“Oh, for the love of—” Malik groaned, hoisting himself up on his elbows. “Has it even been an hour?”

Bakura pushed him back down into the sheets with a hand against his chest. “Go back to sleep. I’ll… I can deal with her, this time.”

Malik hesitated, his face working as he struggled to make sense of what he was hearing. “Really? You sure?”

“You’re exhausted and I am sick to death of your bitching. At this point I’d do almost anything.”

With a faint chuckle, Malik collapsed back against the mattress. “Bakura, thank you,” he muttered, his eyes already closed again.

Bakura responded with a grunt as he stumbled out of the room. It wasn’t so much for Malik’s sake that he was doing this, despite the knot of guilt between his shoulder blades. It was something else, something luring him like the temptation to probe an aching wound, to test himself against the pain. He would prove himself stronger than the terror that ran dark fingers along his bones.

He crouched beside Suraya’s makeshift bed and contemplated her. Her cries continued unabated as she looked up at him, but her face was relatively relaxed; she wasn’t clenching every tiny muscle in misery. “You’re faking it, aren’t you?” he asked her. “I bet you just want to be held. Malik spoils you.” With a sigh, he reached into the drawer, awkwardly scooping his hands under her.

As she felt his uncertain touch, Suraya arched her back against him and wailed louder, and he had to brace her against his thigh to keep her from rolling herself out of his arms. “Come on,” he muttered, struggling to his feet as he tried to arrange her in a reasonable position, “give it a rest.” He jiggled his arms a little, not sure whether he was trying to rock her or bounce her, just hoping it would distract her. After a moment of wriggling on both their parts, she settled herself against his shoulder, and her cries subsided to little whimpers. He could feel her round cheek pressed to his collarbone, and her breath a tiny warm puff on his neck.

He walked to the window, trying to peer out into the emptiness of three a.m., but his own reflection blocked him. He frowned as he contemplated it. He supposed that he bore the features of his family, that some part of his face was his mother’s and another part his father’s, that the eyes looking back from his dim reflection were relics of lives that had been erased and forgotten. And even if it had taken him millennia to make it to where he was now, he’d once started out as small as Suraya. Small enough to fit inside a pair of arms.

He sifted through the ash of his memories for a scrap of who his own father had been. He couldn’t remember a face or a voice or a name; all he could drag up was a smell of dust on warm skin, and the feeling of being hoisted onto shoulders so strong the muscles felt like iron. And his mother—she was nothing more than a song repeated every night, a shadow softening the morning sun as she came back from the well, the warm vibration of her breastbone as he sat in her lap with his head tucked against her and listened to her speak.

Maybe his parents had been realists. Maybe they’d looked at him, a two-month-old bundle, and seen one more mouth to feed, a child that might make it halfway to adulthood if he was lucky. Or maybe they’d looked at him the way Malik looked at Suraya, like they were privileged to be cradling this startling stranger. It hardly mattered, either way, because they were dead before his sixth birthday, and Bakura had watched it happen, and it had cleaved open a wound wide enough for a demon to occupy. The dark dread tugged at him again, creeping up his legs to his spine and coiling around his guts. She was so small, and he was so… 

Human.

Suraya sighed against his neck, her body sagging with relaxation as she dropped into sleep. He slid her down to let her lie on her back in his arms, and stared at the long, pale lashes twitching against her cheeks.

He felt a prickle at the back of his neck, and turned to see Malik leaning in the doorway, gazing at him with a soft smile.

“Everything okay?” Malik asked.

“Fine,” Bakura muttered around the panic filling his mouth.

Malik came closer and looked down at Suraya, but didn’t try to take her from Bakura’s arms. “At least one of you looks content with this situation.” At the sound of Malik’s voice, Suraya gave a little grunt and shifted in Bakura’s arms, then pulled her arms and legs back in tightly, curling up again like a bug. They both watched her, but while Malik laughed quietly, Bakura tried to swallow and felt like he was choking on a throatful of sand.

“…I really don’t know how to do this.” 

“You are doing it,” Malik said. 

“Don’t be stupid, Malik, there’s more to raising a kid than just lugging her around whenever she cries.”

“Right now, there’s not much more.” Malik cupped his hand around Suraya’s head, smoothing a tuft of her hair. “And this is the most important thing. Holding her, caring for her.” His voice dropped to a mumble. “That’s what the stuff I’ve been reading says, anyway. And what comes after this, when she gets older—hell, your guess is as good as mine.”

“And what do we do when bad shit happens to her?”

“We don’t let it.”

Frustration surged in Bakura’s throat. “Fuck, Malik, that’s not how it works, you know that—” He cut himself off as he heard the frantic twinge in his voice.

Malik’s eyes softened as they met Bakura’s. “Then we just do what we can,” he said.

“I don’t know how to just… do that.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

Bakura swallowed. “Malik, shut up and listen to what I’m saying. I… I only know how to be one thing. I’m barely… a person.” The words were coming slowly, like he was learning a new language even as he tried to speak. “Whatever you would need me to be, whatever Suraya would need me to be—I can’t do it, not without becoming someone else, something different than I’ve ever been…” _ Someone I might have been_, he didn’t say. “And I don’t know if I even can but I know that if you keep her, and if I stay… Malik, I won’t be the same. _ We _won’t be the same.”

“No, we won’t. But I’ll still love you.”

They were just words, little words against a lifetime of shattering uncertainty but—they were a binding spell, a promise. He felt them melt through him, warm and slow like honey.

Malik closed the distance between them and leaned in to kiss him, his mouth moving tenderly against Bakura’s lips. “Malik,” Bakura murmured, drawing back a little.

“What?”

“I’m holding your kid.”

“So?” Malik looked down at Suraya. “I’m not going to hurt her.”

“Yeah, but… it’s weird.”

Malik chuckled. “She’s going to have to get used to seeing me kiss you.”


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years later.

“Why don’t I have a mother?”

Bakura tried not to let Suraya see him roll his eyes. This wasn’t the first time she’d asked the question; she’d made a hobby out of reciting the query. Usually it was Malik she asked, and he responded with some nonsense about her being luckier than other little girls because instead of a mother, she had the two of them.

But Malik wasn’t home, and Bakura couldn’t bring himself to recite his usual line. “You do have a mother,” he said. “But she’s gone. She was never around.”

Suraya’s eyes widened at this twist. “Why not?”

“I guess she didn’t want to be.”

As he watched her try to process this, he realized that he was going to get an earful from Malik when Suraya greeted him tonight with her new knowledge. “Suraya,” he said, getting out of his chair to kneel in front of her on the floor. “Your mother didn’t want to stay with you, but your dad will never, ever leave you. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” she said, like Bakura had just asked her the silliest question imaginable.

“Good.”

She eyed him. “Will you?”

“Will I what? Leave?”

Suraya nodded.

Bakura reached to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No, I won’t leave.”

“Even though you’re not actually my dad.” She was trying to nail him down, catch him out like she was a lawyer who had him on the stand. He wanted to smile at the way her eyebrows drew together so sternly.

“You came from Malik and your mother, so Malik is your father,” Bakura said. “But I…” He cleared his throat. “I love your father, and I want him to spend the rest of his life with me. And he loves you so much that you’ll always be part of his life, so that makes you part of my life. And in a way, that makes me your dad, too, right?”

Suraya considered this, and smiled. “Then you love me, too?”

“Yeah,” Bakura said. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dadkura :')


End file.
